


A Little Bit Of Red

by Kendrene



Series: Of all the shades of love and other things [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the duel with Roan, Clarke seeks to introduce Lexa to painting, ends up fixing her broken self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To Zuzka. Ai hod yu in.
> 
> I hope I did them justice.
> 
> As usual kudos and comments are welcome and treasured. If you see any mistakes, please drop me a line and I will fix them!

 

“ _Baby blue, oh, baby blue._

_Come here, I'm gonna smear another color over you._

_Get out of bed, you little sleepy head,_

_Your black and white needs a little bit of red.”_

Serena Ryder – _Little Bit Of Red_

 

You have watched in horror as the ambassadors have turned on Lexa, like a pack of rabid wolves. Grounders above all else, respect strength and now they find hers lacking. Because of _Skaikru_. Because of you.

You have pleaded with her, not to fight Roan, to choose her own champion like Nia did, even as you knew your words were wasted while hers still resounded in your head.

_I am the Commander. No one fights for me._

You have tried to take matters in your own hands, and your wrist still smarts from Ontari’s crushing grip closing around it.

The hood obscures your features, as you make your way through the surging crowd. They chant her title softly, then louder, so you know she has arrived and you must hurry, before the duel starts. You want her to see that you came, despite your rage, despite the paralyzing fear that grips your heart, that her words will turn true and she will die today.

You push through the first line of onlookers and let the hood fall back away from your face with shaking hands, and your whole being vibrates as always when you stand in her presence. She is utterly still, a few paces away from you, gathered in on herself, eyes almost closed and you feel the violence coalesce around her like a shroud.

As if guided by an irresistible force, her head turns slowly to you and emerald green eyes meet sapphire blue. Little shocks course through your spine and your resentment cracks further.

“I am glad you came,” she whispers, and it feels like the crowd has vanished around you.

“Me too.” You hear yourself say, the hinted tremor in your voice making her eyes flash with something. Hope, perhaps?

Then it starts, and her savagery comes to the fore. Worry wars with attraction inside you, as you admit that side of her calls to the ferocity that you know resides beneath your breast, and you so rarely let out. You remember the last time you let it loose, the wild three months you spent alone, fending for yourself, more beast than woman.

You recall the moment Roan took the sackcloth off your head and the monster inside you roared the loudest, hurt and sorrowful, and so impotently angry at what she had done to you.

Her blood spatters like ink on the sand and you gasp, as she grips the blade of her own sword to repel Roan’s assault. He is bigger, stronger and for a moment you think he will force her to the ground then, as suddenly as they came together, they part and resume their deadly dance.

Their blades sing to each other and whisper as they split the air like silk, sparks fly when they connect, then before you realize how it happened, Lexa is sprawled on the ground and Roan holds the spear he forcefully took from a guard at her throat.

You watch Titus slowly sit back on his chair, despair apparent on his features, and when Roan draws his arm back to deliver the final blow, you shut your eyes tightly, knowing that if you watch her die, it will send you mad and break you beyond repair.

The plaza has gone completely quiet, then the crowd screams its approval and you look, in time to see her vicious kick, reverse the situation. She is up in a flurry of movement, and no matter how fast Roan swings the spear, Lexa is always a step ahead. You see a growl form on her lips, right before she abruptly ends the duel

Spear in hand, she looks from Roan to Nia, as the Queen calls her son a coward. You see her lips move, even if the words are lost, drowned in the chanting of the crowd.

“ _Jus drein, jus daun.”_ The spear draws a perfect arc, the Commander’s will made manifest, as she exacts her vengeance and yours. The Ice Queen deflates on her throne, astonishment and death pushing her eyes wide open.

Your eyes are fixed on Lexa and you tremble in relief while she hails Roan as the new ruler of Azgeda. She steps back from him, panting, and you see her exhaustion as her gaze draws upwards, even if everyone else is too caught up in celebration to see, or care.

Your brief leadership has never set you so apart from your people, as hers does. She is a goddess among mortals, aloof and removed from mundane things. Yet, you have caught glimpses of the girl beneath, and you comprehend she chose to let you see, allowing you closer than anyone has ever been to her, save maybe for Costia.

You fight with yourself, to not step out of the crowd and go to her and touch her, and let her be just Lexa for a while, knowing that she cannot allow her people to see her weakness, knowing that it would endanger her again.

Her solitude calls to you, and your heart aches to fill her stinging voids and silent spaces.

Someone bumps into you, making you almost lose your footing, and you are forced to avert your gaze for an instant. When you look back she is gone, but you can’t tear your gaze away from the blood on the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

Much later, you have had enough of food and drink, and you have sought refuge in your rooms. You sit in the dark, as the candles you lit only throw their radiance on the empty canvas resting on the easel in front of you.

You left the great windows open and the chill of the night’s air brings you sounds of distant laughter and snatches of song. You try to still your heart, and draw the image of Lexa, victorious and untamed, with your mind’s eye, before transferring it to the waiting surface, yet the only image you can conjure is the lonely, fragile girl beneath the _Heda_ mantle, the one that only you can see.

You take a resigned look at the brushes and paints you laid out, as the tranquility you need to draw escapes you, when a soft knock at the door interrupts your musings.

“Is this, _I told you so_?” you ask when you find her on your doorstep, using humor to hide the thumping of your heart in your chest and the sudden lump in your throat.

“No, this is _thank you_ ,” she murmurs in reply, soft eyes demurely downcast for a moment.

“Come in,” you gesture to her bandaged hand, “let me change that for you.”

She sits on the edge of your bed, back so straight it’s almost rigid. The candlelight confers a golden hue to her skin and your eyes follow the curve of her bare shoulders, linger on the hinted swell of her breasts beneath her nightgown.

You feel the attraction you have tried to suppress rekindle, and the ghost feeling of her lips on yours almost staggers you, as heat spreads throughout your body. You close the distance quickly, and sit beside her, cupping her hand in yours and hoping she won’t feel your fingers shake against her skin.

As you busy yourself with her bandages, you talk of something, anything else to distract yourself from the dizziness you feel at her closeness. You end up asking about Ontari and curse inwardly. You’d rather spend time with the girl than the Commander. When she inevitably mentions her death, you cannot stand it.

“Do you ever talk about anything _other_ than your death?” you blurt out, forcefully. She just regards you, as if she doesn’t understand why you are that bothered. She is so used to the idea that she will die young and violently, that the concept of someone being upset by a thing she deems inevitable and embraces wholly, confuses her.

“Thank you for backing me.” Her words aim to soothe the distress she perceives in you, and you find it hard to swallow, as an invisible fist clamps around your throat.

_I was doing it for you._ A piece of you seems to click back in place.

“I was just doing what was right for my people.” You so want to kick yourself when you see a shadow of hurt darken her eyes. You are still smarting so much, because of the word she gave you, that she seemed to be able to break without a second thought. She abandoned your people. She abandoned _you._ The fear you felt as she walked away from the battle with the Mountain Men returns, and you have to gasp for air as the dam that holds your sorrow back threatens to fold. You came out unscathed in body, but you feel your spirit is a ravaged battlefield, and you aren’t sure she knows it. You wonder what would happen if you showed her how raw you truly are.

“Your ambassadors betrayed you. How do you move forward?” the words tumble out of their own accord, but the real question that you want to spit in her face is how _you_ can move forward, past the hurt that makes for fitful sleep at night, past all the blood that's on your hands because of a choice you did not make.

“They were doing what they believed was right for their people, too.”

You have to turn your head then, as the realization hits you like the spear that stabbed the Ice Queen through the heart. It was not Lexa choosing, but _Heda_. When faced with branching options, she pursued the one that would guarantee the safety of her people. You think back at what and who you have sacrificed to ensure the security of your own, and the fires of blame dwindle to embers in your chest, then are snuffed out by guilt.

Strands of your hair fall across your face, and partly obscure her from view, but you can still see her eyes watching you and imagine just how much it cost the girl Lexa to leave you behind.

You stand, unable to bear her scrutiny, and walk up to the easel. A rustling of silk, then you feel her presence at your back, scorching like the hottest summer sun.

“Clarke?”

You half turn and see she has picked up one of the brushes, dipping it in a half dried splotch of paint on the abandoned palette. “You were going to paint? At this hour?”

“Yes,” you say simply, then following an abrupt urge, you add, “would you care to try?” You move to the side and she looks from the blank canvas to you and back, an adorably lost look forming on her face.

“I…”

“Just go along with what you feel,” you urge, and pursuing your own counsel, you dip a finger in the paint and reach towards her, smearing some across her nose.

“Clarke!” her outraged glare, tips you over the edge and you start laughing unable, or unwilling to stop. The image of her laying on the sand erupts from the recesses of your mind, but this time Roan’s spear hits home and her midnight blood drenches the ground black, soaks the world. Tears start streaming down your cheeks and patter to the floor as mournful sobs mingle with your laughter, then take over. The burnt, grotesquely contorted bodies of the innocents in Mount Weather join hers, and your legs give out from under you.

You do not know if you will ever stop falling.

The brush clatters from her fingers to the tiles, loud as gunshot in the quiet of the night, and strong arms catch you, encircling your shivering form protectively.

“Clarke,” her voice caresses your name as she says it, the tips of her finger wipe at your tears and you cling to her like a castaway as the cruel chaff of unbridled emotions cuts your soul to pieces.

Her hand strokes your hair gently, pushing it away from your brow, and you meet her gaze, and see a single tear shine like crystal in the guttering light of the flames as it slowly makes its way down her cheek.

“Lexa, I...” you see her bite her lip, and she starts to pull back from you, her body gearing up for another rejection. Before she can move further away, you close the distance, your hands cupping her face tenderly as your mouths meet, and you feel her tremble against you.

You open yourself to her, and the hand that is tangled in your hair moves to the back of your neck, holding you, supporting you as you give into the heat of her body. You feel her tongue flick against your lips, as she takes in the taste of your tears and shares your sorrow.

Lexa exhales against you, her breath carrying the scent of mint, and the fainter one of alcohol, and you breathe her in and then she inhales and you feel like she has taken a part of your soul in with the air.

You pull back slowly, sucking on her lower lip gently as you do, and a sound half moan, half whimper of loss rises from her throat.

When you stand, she looks up to you, as if unsure what comes next. You find her hand and pull her up and into you, unable to resist kissing her again, even as you gently guide her to the bed.

“Clarke,” she sighs your name into your mouth, and tingles rush down your spine. When you look at her, her eyes are serious.

“Are you sure?” she asks, and her hunger turns her voice into a husky growl.

You only nod, thinking that if you try to talk, you will burst into tears again.

Your hands go to her shoulders, as she sits on the bed, and hers pull at the laces keeping your own garments closed over your midriff, before she desists and surrenders, and allows you to slowly uncover her.

As you do and her body is revealed to you, you are filled with reverence, and you marvel at her perfection, then lust has the best of you both, and as the hunger stirs in your bellies, you climb on top of her, the barriers between you removed, as golden locks mingle with brown when you bend over her to cover her mouth with yours.

Your body molds itself on hers and she throws her head back and moans again, her fingers racking fiery paths down your naked back, and you gasp, mostly in surprise. She pauses, afraid she has hurt you and you nuzzle into her neck, licking the tender skin slowly as if you were trying to melt your tongue into it.

With a knee, you gently nudge her legs apart, and settle between them with a moan of your own. When you rock your hips, and your mounds collide, Lexa calls your name as you start rocking into her, and she into you.

Your bodies move in unison, following the ebb and flow of pleasure as the heat between your thighs and hers becomes unbearable, the wetness mixing, making the air heavy with your arousal. You feel her hands on your arms, as she tries to find leverage to flip you on your back and you shake her hold off, almost roughly, grabbing her wrists and locking them into a hold over her head.

She strains against you and your mouth finds her shoulder, your teeth sink into supple skin and she screams in pain as you mark her, but the gush of wetness that floods the space between your bodies tells you she does not mind.

You release your hold, and rain feather-like kisses on the already bruising skin, then your lips trace her collarbone, and you lick and nip your way down to her chest.

She squirms as you tease the sensitive spots under her breasts and you capture one of her nipples and slowly suck it and circle it, wetting it with your tongue and then you jokingly blow air onto it and are rewarded with delicious shivers as she squirms under you.

“ _Beja..._ ” the plea is whispered, and you release her hands, feeling them press gently on the top of your head, urging you downwards.

Your hands grasp her hips, as you slither lower until your nose is filled by the aroma of her arousal to the point you cannot think anymore, merely act.

You want to drink it all, everything she has to give you and then more. You press your mouth to her mound, intent on devouring her and she lifts up into you, offering herself to your tongue, which delicately probes until you find her center.

Her juices fill your mouth, she tastes of salt and sweat and the distinct tang that you know instinctively is only _her_ , and you cannot help but bait her almost to the limit before slowing and eliciting an annoyed grunt.

Her fingers tangle in your tresses and Lexa twists them and tugs them lightly, then harder until your scalp prickles slightly, so your tongue grows more insistent and you feel her go rigid all of a sudden, her thighs clamping around your head and then release completely as aftershocks wrack her and she whimpers into a pillow.

You glance upwards and notice she is looking down at you, eyes half lidded by pleasure, irises a green so dark they are almost black. Lexa's hand seeks one of yours and your fingers entwine. You feel the rougher spots on her skin, due to the long hours of sword training, and you raise yourself on one elbow, lovingly tracing her knuckles with soft kisses.

She tugs you up, next to her, and you can tell she is close to falling asleep as she settles against you with a sigh.

“Clarke...” she tries to move away and you see the determination under the weariness, to give back to you what she took.

“Rest,” your arm encircles her shoulders as you pull her to lay with her face in the crook of your neck. You turn slightly towards her and kiss her nose lightly as your legs tangle. “It was a hard day.”

She tugs a pelt over you both, as the breeze entering the room pebbles your skin with goosebumps, and soon enough her breathing slows and deepens as she drifts off to sleep.

You lay awake a while longer and when you are sure her slumber is deep enough that she won't hear, you kiss her brow and tell her you love her.

_Ai hod yu in._

The words fill your thoughts and she fills your heart and you believe that, maybe, tonight there won't be nightmares.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, Clarke finds her inspiration. Lexa helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, to Zuzka, Commander of my heart.
> 
> Hope you like how this little story ends. As usual kudos and comments are treasured. If you see any errors let me know below and I will fix them!

 

“ _You say space will make it better,_

_and_ _time_ _will make it heal,_

_I won’t be lost forever_

_and soon I wouldn’t feel, l_

_ike I’m haunted, oh, falling.”_

Jess Glynne – _Take Me Home_

 

The quietest of noises shatters your dream, and the faces of your predecessors slowly fade from your mind, as you are dragged back to consciousness. The noise repeats again, and your hand instinctively drops to the side of the bed, where a sheathe hangs with one of your knives.

The weapon’s hilt slides reassuringly into your grip, and half the blade is bared before you realize the sound comes from the sleeping woman next to you.

Your eyes focus, and you blink away the last traces of sleep. In the uncertain light of the last candles still burning, you see that Clarke has rolled onto her stomach in her slumber. One of her hands holds a corner of her pillow in a white-knuckled grip, and her muscles are rigid with fright.

She whimpers again, louder and with the gentlest of touches, you brush the hair that feather her cheek and the back of her neck to the side, then bend over her protectively, and your lips trail along her clenched jaw softly.

“ _Ai niron_ ,” you whisper softly, “it is a dream.” You place your open hand on the small of her back, and rub small, soothing circles on her skin. “Come back to me, Clarke.”

She buries her face in the pillow and moans, as her shoulders tense with the effort of shedding the nightmare off. Your fingers follow the impression of her spine, and you marvel at the unmarred perfection of her back. Most of your people bear a scar somewhere, a testament to how harsh life is in the clans, but she doesn’t.

Someone would say that it shows she is weak, but you know different. She is _Wanheda_ , destroyer of the Mountain. You are so very proud of her, yet you know you cannot tell her. The hurt for what you left her alone to do is too fresh, and even if she understands your choice, the acceptance is too new. Maybe someday, you will be able to share the thought with her.

“Lexa?” you look up and meet her gaze, blue, slit-like eyes dark with sleep. “I am here,” you murmur reassuringly. You lay on your side, head level with hers and place a kiss on her forehead, as your hand keeps caressing up and down her back.

She moves closer to you, your lips graze hers in a slow, mellow kiss.

“The nightmare,” she squeezes her eyes tightly shut, as if by doing so, she can erase the lingering images from her mind, “it was awful, it was…” she trails off with a half sob and her back tenses under your touch, as she shakes violently, trying to hold the grief in.

“Hush,” you kiss her closed eyes, her brow, the tip of her nose, “it eases with time.” You know it is only a partial truth. Some of the deaths caused by your choices still haunt you in the dead of night, and second guessing and regret never truly fade, even though they become easier to bear as the years go by. Clarke does not need to hear that now, however. She needs comfort and tenderness which you are all too ready to give.

She can ease the burden you carry like nobody else can and you desperately want to do the same for her, now that she has reached out for you.

Following instinct you uncover her completely and your mouth moves downward along the line of her shoulder, onto her back. You place soft, wet kisses along her spine, flicking your tongue against the silkiness of her skin. A quiet rumble of pleasure comes from deep inside her throat, and you feel your loins stir with desire.

“Lexa…” she sighs as your nails teasingly scrape across her shoulder blades. Her flesh wrinkles slightly with goosebumps, and she shivers against your touch. “I am cold.”

You lean over her more, your breast brushing her back and your kisses become more insistent. You move, covering her body with your own, shielding her from the chill seeping in through the open window, and straddle her ass.

When your mound briefly touches her flesh, a moan spills from you, as the faint burning between your legs becomes a raging fire you cannot extinguish. You feel yourself grow wet, and Clarke arches up into you in response.

Taking a shuddering breath you pause, before you are completely swept away, and you feel her hips rock back and forth, encouragingly.

“Don’t stop,” she begs, “please don’t stop.”

You feel her muscles contract under you, and you grab her hips, digging your fingers into her, as you almost lift her off the bed, in your urge to press yourself against her. Your arousal drips onto Clarke, the smell of it filling the air, and her moan echoes yours, as she squirms out of your hold, to press her own sex against the bed below.

You groan as you lose contact with her, and pin her savagely under you, grinding your hips forcefully, riding her, and pushing her even more into the covers. All reason, all thought fleeing, you are filled with a desire to possess her, to mark her yours as she did with you a few hours back, and a fierce protectiveness swells in your chest.

You know even through the haze of arousal, that losing her would destroy you, and you vow to keep her from harm at any cost, as you crush your mouth to her shoulder and bite down hard, breaking the skin.

She rears up, screaming your name and pushing so forcefully against you, that you lose any last vestige of self-control and explode all over her, drenching her with your wetness.

You collapse onto Clarke, panting, sweat stinging your eyes. Still, you feel her hips grinding into the bed, and you fight weariness away, as you flip her onto her back. She pushes up on her elbows, and your mouths meet halfway, her tongue seeking yours, fighting for dominance.

You growl into the kiss, and drive her back down, her teeth bruising your lips even as she submits to you and collapses backwards, pulling you down with her.

You shift your weight, straddling one of her thighs and angling your body in such a way that you can reach between her legs and cup her mound. She is so soaked and ready for you, that your fingers are inundated by the deluge of her want.

You tease her gently, playfully, and watch as she throws her head back, exposing the delicious curve of her throat. Her eyes are half crazed with abandon.

“Oh...please....” her legs spread further, and she shifts one up, eliciting a grunt from you as your mound comes in contact with her body again. “I want you... _inside...._ ” she manages, between gulps of hair, her voice smoky with the desire that rules her ruthlessly.

You slide your fingers into her, hesitantly at first, afraid to hurt her, but her hips rock upwards and she takes in more of you as she places her own hands on your sides, and guides you to rub back and forth against her thigh.

You ease into the movement and as you both climb towards release, your touch becomes rougher, your thrusts against her, inside her more frantic.

When the tide breaks, it collides at the same time against your bodies, and you seek each others mouths, screaming your release, your voices singing the same tune, your limbs shivering and vibrating into one being.

Pleasure slowly ebbs away, and leaves your limbs and Clarke's heavy with sleep. Contentedly, you ease off her and pull her into you, spooning her from behind. She settles against your chest and the last thing you do, before the night closes around you, is kiss the top of her head.

The wind picks up, making the curtains billow like sails, and the candles wink out.

* * *

 

The morning light streams inside the room, bathing it in radiance, and the warmth of the sun on bare skin wakes you from your slumber. You stir and stretch with a sigh of happiness, that turns to a panicked gasp when you realize only the heat of another body is left in the bed. You sit up, completely awake and rub at your eyes.

“Clarke?”

“Here,” her voice calls, and your shoulders relax visibly. Your eyes adjust to the brightness of the room and you take her in. She has put the nightgown back on, but hasn't bothered to lace it properly, so it leaves one shoulder bare and, as she moves it slides further, and you catch a glimpse of her nakedness beneath.

You realize you want to pull her to the bed again, and take her, taste her, spend the whole day adoring her body with yours, but you know it is not possible and that soon your duties will call upon you. You cannot see what is on the canvas, but you imagine from the way her arm moves, that she is drawing something.

“How long have you been awake?” you ask, stifling a yawn.

“Since sunrise,” she glances back at you, and the affection you see in her eyes warms you more than the sun ever could. You rise, and pull a blanket around you, shivering. Your own garments are lost somewhere on the floor, or perhaps forever gone under your bed.

“Can I see?” you have to make a conscious effort to not tilt your head and try to sneak a peek around her shoulder. You have tried such things before, when you have caught her drawing, and she never let you see something she did not deem finished.

“Yes,” she says, stepping aside, “maybe you can help. I feel it is missing something.”

Your gaze falls on the painting, and your eyes widen as your breath is taken away. Without thought you walk closer, letting the blanket fall around your ankles, completely forgotten. Before you have realized what you are doing, you have raised a trembling hand, your fingertips stopping only millimeters from the canvas.

You stare at yourself, watching from the balcony in your own throne room, over thronging Polis below. She has transferred on the canvas the way you lean on one of the columns when you need a moment to think, looking to the distance, your face pensive, the look in your eyes contemplating things not yet passed.

She has drawn you in blacks, and whites and every shade of gray in between. You can pick every detail of your armor, your face, the way one of your hands rests against the wall. You do not think you look this beautiful.

“What do you think?” she watches you carefully.

“You honor me,” you feel humbled, speechless. She has drawn you from the memory of a moment, and in doing so, made that instant eternal, infinite, encompassing time. She has made you immortal.

“It's missing something,” she bites her lip, and you can tell she isn't satisfied.

You look around and notice the abandoned pigments on the side.

“Why did you not use any color?” you ask, picking up a brush, like you did the night before, mirroring the gesture that started everything.

“Color...” she nods, gratefully, “that's what's missing. Pick one,” she points at the small pots, arranged in a neat line next to the palette. You frown down for a moment, then your eyes are drawn to the farthest container. A stray ray of sun happens to hit it directly, and you see the pot is filled to the brim with the most vivid shade of red. You dip the brush inside carefully, then offer it to her.

Clarke shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs, gaze locked on yours. She turns you towards the drawing, and one of her hands clasps yours gently, as the other goes around your waist.

“Let me show you,” her breath tickles your earlobe, and you relax your arm, letting her hand guide you. A few masterful strokes, and your shoulders in the painting are cloaked in a cascade of red. You lean back into her embrace, and Clarke places a tender kiss against the side of your neck.

You stand in silence, watching the color slowly dry on the canvas, reveling in her warmth, and let yourself be just Lexa for a while longer.

 


End file.
